


The Unexpected Visitor

by Tolra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Awesome Bobby, Cars, Half-Siblings, Hunters & Hunting, Illegitimate Children, John Can't Keep It In His Pants, M/M, Monsters, Old Friends, Siblings, mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:25:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5757103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolra/pseuds/Tolra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when they thought John Winchester had been put to rest, no other surprises to be sprung at them, something unexpected drops right on Bobby's front doorstep. Sam and Dean now have to deal with the secrets their Father kept from them - and what to do now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unexpected Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this isn't season specific, and that this might not follow a straight time line along seasons.  
> Tags to be added.  
> All mistakes are my own.

“You need to get yourself a silver tipped arrow, Greg.” Bobby said gruffly, holding a mobile to his ear while flipping through a leather bound book. The pages were ripped and smudged in places, a few dark amber circles which suggested at some point a whiskey tumbler had been placed on it – or spilt over it. “Yes. More dangerous at night, watch out for yourself. Wendigos ain't no walk in the park – get yourself some fire. Burn the bastard.” He advised, leaning back in his chair and adjusting the cap on his head. It wasn't unusual for Bobby to have to consult others on hunts, he was experienced and his house was littered with knowledge – paper pinned on the walls and protective symbols scribbled across the floorboards and ceilings. “Look, Greg… I've got to go – call me when it’s over.” Bobby ordered him, hanging the mobile up at the sound of another phone ringing. Pushing himself up he made his way to the kitchen, looking at the phone ringing that was labelled ‘Director Of FBI’. Clearing his throat, he lifted the phone off of its hook and pressed it to his ear. With practise ease he announced. “This is Jeff Browning, director of the FBI.” He kept his voice controlled, rolling his eyes. Idjit hunters needed to learn to lie better; he was starting to get tired of picking up their pieces. “Yes. Yes. They are part of my team. Why the hell are you wasting their time?” Bobby barked slightly, his voice staying authoritative – pulling rank on someone who would no doubt actually be under him if he did work for the FBI. “Well I fully expect you to give them your complete cooperation – or else I’ll be filing a complaint to your supervisor.” Bobby threatened, fishing his mobile out of his pocket as it vibrated. It just seemed liked today was going to be one of those days. “Yes. Have a nice day.” Bobby hung up the phone and sent off a text – advising about testing for demonic possession.

By the time mid-day rolled around, Bobby had barely had time to sit down or work on the scrap yard. Seventeen phone calls, three of which were him pretending to be from Home Land Security, Health Department and from the local police. He had been visited by two different hunters, who had been scooping out the area and passing through, and must of sent over a dozen texts. Finally getting the chance to pour himself a whiskey and make a sandwich, he sat down his couch and made himself conformable – just as there was a knock on his door. “Who the hell is it now?” He complained voice rough as he pulled himself up again. Grumpily, he strode over to the door – picking up the shotgun that was constantly by it. You had to be careful in his position. Peeking through the spyhole, always safe to double check, he didn't expect to see a female on his doorstep. Now, Bobby didn't want to sound sexist, but hunting was – in majority – a boy’s club. “Who are you?” He murmured to himself, double checking that the door was on its chain. Keeping the gun hidden behind the door, he opened it as far as it would.

“I'm not buying what you’re selling.” Bobby told the girl on his step – placing her age at nineteen or twenty. There was something about her that was familiar; her jaw line was ringing bells – along with the eye colour. He just couldn't place his finger on it.

“I'm not selling anything. Er… I'm actually looking for someone.” She told him, a British accent ringing out – which struck Bobby as strange. Why would she seem so familiar if she was British? Bobby was certain he didn't know anyone English. 

“Do you have ID?” Bobby asked, trying to figure out if she was a hunter – wouldn't be unusual for hunters he didn't know to come knocking. Or whether she was some sort of official… though really she looked too young for that. He’d be able to spot a fake ID a mile off – which was helpful in spotting hunters who weren't aware he was one himself. 

The girl raised an eyebrow at him, before rummaging around in the satchel that was over her shoulder. “Um… Well… I have a driver’s licences…” The girl told him, holding up a Harry Potter ID wallet and flipping it open for him to see. Bobby took it and raised his eyebrows in shock slightly.  
“Millie Winchester?” He questioned, able to suddenly draw the connections to why she looked familiar. That was John’s jaw... John’s eye colour. The more he thought about it, the more his mind was drawing the conclusion how much she actually looked like Dean… Bobby told himself to cut it out. She was British, and there was no way in hell John had ever been to England. However that thought was quickly eradicated; as on the line that was meant for your place of birth ‘Phoenix, Arizona, USA’ was printed in solid lettering. “Interesting accent you've got there, Miss Winchester.” Bobby pointed out, handing the ID back through the small gap that the door opened to. 

Millie smiled at him and shrugged. “Thanks. That’s what you get when you move to the UK at a young age.” She told him, dumping the ID back into her satchel. “So, er… I'm looking for Robert Singer? Does he live here?” She asked, pulling out an old journal from her satchel and flicking through it. “I think he can help me find this man.” As she spoke, she carefully pulled out a picture of John Winchester and held it up for the man to see. The edge was ripped – clearly someone else had once been in the photograph.

“Aw balls.” Bobby cursed, looking at the photograph of John. He put the shotgun back in its hiding spot and took the chain off. “I'm Bobby Singer. You better come in.” The man told her, holding the door open and watching as she stepped into his home. “Living room is through there. Take a seat.” Bobby followed her through and shook his head. “So… What has you looking for that man?”

Holding the photograph in her hands, Millie looked down at it and then back up at Bobby. “So you know John Winchester?” She asked, putting the photograph and journal back in her satchel. “He’s my Dad.” Millie told him, Bobby inward cursed John Winchester and everything he stood for – including his inability to keep it in his pants. You would have thought that he learnt his lesson after Adam – but then the ages seemed similar so they could have very well happened in the same year. Just thinking about it was making Bobby’s head hurt. 

“And why are you looking for him?” Bobby asked, rubbing his face with his right hand. He needed to be careful… it could be likely that this wasn't human. It could be a possession, or a breed of shape shifter. Because hell, she looked like the spitting image of a mix between Sam and Dean (as well as some other party that seemed to ring a bell) but with breasts. “Can I get you a drink?” He asked, watching her sit down and seem to be getting comfortable. 

“Some water would be great thanks; I've been driving for almost ten hours.” She told Bobby with a bit of a light hearted laugh. Millie smoothed out her pencil skirt a little bit, bottom lip catching between her teeth in an action that reminded Bobby of someone. “Oh. Well. My Mum died.” Millie said, but her tone suggested that she didn't want to talk about it. “My Mum’s journal suggested that he could help.” She told him, raising her voice a little bit as Bobby left the living room to the kitchen. “Her death was… unusual. And it seems that John has a bit of a speciality in unusual deaths. So I really nee-“ Millie’s voice was cut off, eyes rolling into the back of her head and whole body slumping forwards until she smacked the floor face first.

Behind her, Bobby held the butt of his rifle up in a firm grip – watching as the girl fell to the floor with a thump. “My apologises.” He murmured, giving her a careful prod with the muzzle – just to make sure she was out cold. Once satisfied, he picked the girl up – who really couldn't be weighing more than sixty-five kilograms – and dropped her on the couch. Grabbing a box of salt from the side, it was his turn to make a call. 

“Dean. You and your brother need to get here. Your Daddy left us some unfinished business.”.


End file.
